


chase the blues away

by meridies



Category: Rust (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family Dynamics, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28992984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meridies/pseuds/meridies
Summary: Wilbur isn't sure how he accidentally managed to become an older brother, but somewhere along the road, it happened.or, 5 times Wilbur thinks of Tommy as a brother, and the 1 time Tommy thinks so too.
Relationships: Ranboo & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 43
Kudos: 828





	chase the blues away

**Author's Note:**

> ayo its a sleepyrust au!! fair warning: im not caught up on rust lore, so i just invented my own plot. canon divergence ahead.
> 
> cw: a character dies of radiation poisoning and respawns, as non-graphic as i could make it. take care and enjoy!

1.

The first time Wilbur calls Tommy his brother, it’s meant as a scam.

Tommy intentionally roughens himself up, smears dust and dirt across his hands. He plays up the part of _starving, sad kid_ incredibly well, and Wilbur summons tears to his eyes, holds out his hat, says _spare some change? My poor little brother is dying._

All the people who pass by turn to look at them. Their faces soften. Wilbur fights back a smile as his hands and pockets fill with goods. He can see Tommy’s smile, too, as he acts out another coughing fit. When it’s all over, he and Tommy scramble back to the ruined building they’ve been using as home base. There, they methodically sort through everything and split the goods: sixty to forty.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Tommy says with utmost professionalism, “Appreciate it, big guy.”

He always calls Wilbur _big guy._ Sometimes, if he’s in the mood, _Big Dubs._ Sometimes he just calls him _Wilbur._ One time, tossing and turning from a fever, it was _Wilby._

“You’re welcome,” Wilbur says, and pockets his own earnings, “Think it might be worth trying the next town?”

Tommy nods. “I’d be down for that.”

“The brother shtick really works, huh?”

“Works like a goddamn _charm,_ big guy. We’ll be rich by next month if we keep this up.”

“We’re already rich,” says Wilbur.

“We could be _richer.”_

Wilbur grins. That’s very true. They can always be richer.

He and Tommy have a strange relationship, but Wilbur chooses to think of them as business partners. That’s what they are, right? Wilbur’s a mentor, Tommy’s the apprentice, ever since he found Tommy shivering and half-dead by the side of a road in the middle of winter. Tommy was resigned; he barely protested when Wilbur’s stupid, meddling heart forced him to pick the kid up and take him along. 

Tommy was confused when he woke up. He looked around the room, scrawny and hair limp, and asked Wilbur, _who the hell are you?_

_Your savior,_ Wilbur replied, both sarcastic and exhausted, _glad to see you’re still kicking it._

For the first week, Tommy was suspicious and startled easily, like a deer in headlights. He looked upset all the time and hoarded everything Wilbur gave him: food, tools, weapons, clothing. More often than not Wilbur felt as though he were taking care of a kicked puppy.

One morning, everything changed. Instead of being sullen, shy, and ignoring him, Tommy seemingly decided to become hellspawn. It was like the flip of a coin; Wilbur woke up to find Tommy rooting through his things cheerfully, uncaring to Wilbur’s outraged expression. He tapped two fingers to his temple in a sarcastic salute and said, with all the vigor and excitement of the youth, _you don’t mind, do you?_

Wilbur did mind, but he was so grateful to see Tommy acting like a teenager instead of a half-dead skeleton that he said he didn’t. 

The next day he brought up the idea of making money together, and Tommy readily agreed, and it was all downhill from there.

The word _brother_ came along a few weeks later. 

Now, they pack everything with precision (Wilbur) and impatience (Tommy) to set out on the road. They’ve already targeted three towns, to the point where the people know their faces and are suspicious of them, and it’s about time to move to the fourth.

That night, halfway through their journey, they come across a building.

Not exactly a building. It’s a sphere, made of iron and held up by warped scaffolding. Both Wilbur and Tommy stop in their tracks when they see it.

“Never seen something like that before,” says Tommy curiously. 

“Wanna check it out?”

Tommy halfheartedly raises a shoulder. “Why not?”

The knee-high grass is damp and springy beneath their feet as they pick through the field. The base of the sphere— it’s more of a dome, really— is nearly fifty feet wide, and right at the lowest point is a heavy metal hatch. Scattered by the base of the dome are crates. Tommy experimentally pries one of them open and freezes.

“Wilbur,” he says, hushed, “Look at this.”

Wilbur peers into the crate, and his breath catches in his lungs.

He reaches in tentatively, wary of a trap, and pulls out the body of a rifle. Wilbur can see chunks of metal too, high quality, and the remains of busted technology. The crate is filled with scattered components for weapons. 

“Tommy,” he says, “Let’s open the rest of these.”

Night falls, but Wilbur turns on his flashlight and sets it upright. By the dim light, he and Tommy methodically go through a dozen crates before the sun threatens to rise. Inside are more gun components, crumpled and faded blueprints, scrap metal, salvaged fabric, a red and white shirt that will fit Tommy well enough once they wash it. Wilbur stuffs as much as he can hold into his inventory and when he doesn’t have enough room, begins filling satchels as well. 

“Think this belongs to anyone?” Tommy asks at one point.

“Nah,” Wilbur says, overconfident. “If it does, it’s their problem for leaving it out for us.”

Tommy snorts. He steps back, shakes his hands, looks up at the dome overhead. 

“Good thing we’re the ones who found it, eh?”

Something sparks to life in Wilbur’s mind. 

He looks up at the dome. It’s ugly when it’s dark, but the beginnings of a sunrise peek over the horizon. The light will illuminate the building in shades of orange and rust. 

“Tommy,” he calls, “What do you think about the Dome?”

“The dome?” Tommy wrinkles his nose. “It’s a bunch of metal and rot, I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“Not dome,” Wilbur corrects, _"T_ _he_ Dome _._ With a capital D.” 

“The Dome?” Tommy looks skeptical. “What are you thinking?”

Wilbur muses, “I’m not sure."

Tommy falls silent. He crosses his arms, cocks his head, and frowns.

“Wilbur,” he says, “You’re being all mysterious and shit. I’m not sure I like it.”

Wilbur looks at the Dome again and doesn’t bother responding.

Instead of seeing a bunch of metal and rot, as Tommy put it, Wilbur sees something more. He sees the sunlight silhouette the Dome, casting a long shadow over the two of them. The future is vivid and clear. 

Slowly, Wilbur’s mind begins to do what it does best: it plans. 

* * *

2\. 

The Church of the Dome takes shape in slow, jagged movements. Tommy seems doubtful, but he still mines out hundreds of stone pieces to help build the church, brick by brick. They do a lot less scamming now, but Wilbur thinks that’s reasonable. They don’t need money when they’re still riding off the high of finding everything they need at the base of the Dome. 

Tommy, however, thinks otherwise. 

Wilbur steps back from straightening the roof shingles and looks around for him. Tommy’s nowhere to be seen and Wilbur silently prays that he’s not doing anything terrible.

“Tommy?” He calls.

No response. 

Wilbur sighs. He wipes the sweat from his brow and straightens up. A sunburn pickles across the back of his neck. Building an entire church is harder than he thought.

“Tommy!” Wilbur calls again. 

This time he hears something in the distance. A loud whoop. Wilbur’s _older brother instincts_ — though he thinks there’s probably a better name for it— begin ringing.

“Tommy?” Wilbur shouts, “Are you there?”

Tommy bursts through the clearing, and he’s riding a horse. A horse that distinctly does not belong to either of them, tawny and splattered with white. Wilbur’s eyes go wide. 

“What the _hell_ are you doing?”

Tommy grins, wide enough for Wilbur to see the white of his teeth.

“I stole some kid’s horse!” he jeers, coming to a quick canter around the clearing. “Took it quick, too. He didn’t even see me coming.”

“Wait, “Wilbur says, alarmed, _"_ _Whose_ horse?”

“Ranboo’s!” Tommy exclaims. 

“Who the hell is _Ranboo?”_

“My friend,” Tommy gloats. “Well, not exactly my friend. Another kid. Lives two towns over by those abandoned cabins, and _I stole his horse.”_ He pauses awkwardly. “I feel like you’re not as happy about this as you should be.” 

“Why did you steal Ranboo’s horse?” Wilbur says, frantic, “Tommy, you can’t do shit like this, we’re supposed to be— be _messiahs,_ the first sermon is today—”

“About that!” Tommy exclaims. “I’m making Ranboo come to the sermon today.”

Wilbur stares at him.

“You’re what?”

“I told him to come to the sermon,” Tommy continues, “You can meet him there! It’ll be nice.” 

Wilbur’s gaze is irritated. Tommy's is excited.

“Fine,” Wilbur grits eventually. “But if he makes something go wrong, I’m kicking him out, alright?”

Tommy grips, whip-fast, and spurs the house into a gallop again. He vanishes into the underbrush. 

A few hours later, the horse is firmly leashed to a tree, hidden where Ranboo can’t see it. Ranboo turns out to be a gangly, scrawny boy who looks a bit older than Tommy. He doesn’t seem at all thrilled at Tommy’s exuberance and instead asks nervously, “Do you know where my horse is?”

Tommy waves a hand proudly. “Don’t worry about him!” He presses the bar over the church door to lock it firmly. 

Wilbur climbs up onto the podium, readies the donation box by his feet, and checks the time again. His watch, clunky and outdated, tells him that it’s nearly nine in the morning. Tommy takes a seat in the back, face giddy and focused on the prize. He forces Ranboo to sit next to him. 

“Thank you,” Wilbur begins, “For joining me at the Church of the Dome.”

No response from the crowd. His mouth feels a little dry. Wilbur shelves the anxiety away and begins speaking.

The first sermon goes incredibly well. Much better than Wilbur would have expected, because half of it is bullshit anyway. He talks about _climbing the dome_ and _killing skeptics_ and even he doesn’t believe himself, but the audience does. There’s something appealing about having something watching over them, right? And even better, there’s something terrifying about the threat of an ancient god, who kills without reason. That’s the real kicker, Wilbur thinks. 

“The Dome is a cruel mistress,” Wilbur proclaims, “And we must worship her.”

The audience sits in captive silence. 

Someone pipes up and breaks the silence. “How?”

Wilbur smiles. He spreads his hands.

“Let me tell you, my disciples.”

He does. And they listen. And Tommy swings his legs in the back row, eyes never leaving Wilbur. 

“We also have a donation box,” Wilbur slides in, right as he comes to the conclusion of his speech. “The Dome is a being we must give sacrifices to, so spare what valuables you can.” 

Everything is a scam in the world and Wilbur will win it all. He and Tommy will. He watches as everyone— a fair thirty people, they’ll have to expand the seating area more in upcoming weeks— deposits their goods in the donation box. It’s a wonderful sight. He can tell Tommy is excited, too. This Dome scam is working out wonderfully.

One person comes up after the sermon ends and congratulates Wilbur on raising a fine younger brother in such a tumultuous world. They comment on Tommy’s eagerness for something to believe in.

Wilbur smiles. 

_He’s a leader,_ he proclaims, _My little brother is one of a kind._

* * *

3.

In the week after the first sermon, they find that the crates underneath the Dome have been refilled.

“You’re kidding,” Wilbur says, hushed, when Tommy rushes inside to tell him. “All of them?”

“All of them!” Tommy shouts giddily, “Wilby, you have to come see!”

Wilbur is out of bed and stumbles through the dewy grass before he’s even fully awake. Tommy grabs his hand and drags him along. He blinks the fuzzy sleep from his eyes and finally, they arrive at the base of the Dome.

“Shit,” Wilbur breathes, “This is insane.” 

“I know!” Tommy bounces backward and forward on his heels. “We have— we have everything we need!”

“How is this _possible,"_ mutters Wilbur, half to himself, and as he pries open the lids, he hears Tommy begin rambling about world respawn, loot drops, things that Wilbur never bothered to learn because it has never affected him personally. He and Tommy have never stayed in one place long enough to see something like this. 

It’s the same loot from before, but now, with the Church of the Dome so close to them and his and Tommy’s actual house close as well, they can take all of it. Steadily, he and Tommy transport all the items back. Wilbur’s sweating buckets by the end of it.

“I think that’s it,” Tommy huffs, and drops stacks of ammunition onto the floor of their base, “Is there anything left?”

“I left my backpack there,” Wilbur shrugs, and squints up at the rapidly rising sun, “I’ll go grab it.”

“I’ll come with you,” Tommy says, even though he’s exhausted from all the movement, and eagerly leaps up to tag along. Wilbur rolls his eyes, but he brings Tommy along. The Dome isn’t far from their house, but it’s distant enough that it takes a few minutes of walking to get to and from. The Church of the Dome is directly in between, a midpoint.

It’s right as they reach that midpoint when there’s a whirring sound, thunderous on the horizon, and two black shapes in the sky come into view. 

Wilbur looks up at them and his heart drops. 

“Come on,” he urges, “We’ve got to take cover.”

“Are those—?” 

“Helicopters,” Wilbur says, heart hammering, “I'm not sure if they're dangerous, but—”

Wilbur's statement is answered before he has the chance to finish it. A shadowy figure props a semi-automatic out the side, and clarify scorches through Wilbur's mind. The helicopters are here to kill them. 

Everything in Wilbur’s body goes still, for a terrifying moment, before he spurs himself into action.

“Run!” he mutters to Tommy, staring at the sky with wide eyes, “Run, Tommy, go take cover!”

“But—”

“I’ll be fine,” Wilbur grits, “I’ll go get my shit, you run.”

Tommy doesn’t move, absolutely frozen, and Wilbur shoves him, hard, _"_ _Run!”_

Tommy sprints. He vanishes into the underbrush and one of the helicopters follows him, but the second turns ominously. It hovers in the air like a vulture, hunting, and Wilbur doesn’t dare move.

There’s a spatter of gunfire. Wilbur flinches before his gut instinct to _run_ kicks in, but there’s nowhere to go because he doesn’t want to lead the helicopters towards Tommy, and he can’t stay out in the open. Wilbur scans the clearing and makes a split-second decision.

_The Dome._

Wilbur manages to make it to the base of the Dome. He ducks inside. With shaking hands, he pulls the heavy iron hatch shut, locks it. 

All sound fades. The world goes pitch black.

Abruptly Wilbur realizes that he’s locked himself in the belly of the monster.

He holds a hand out in front of his face, barely an inch, and can see nothing. Wilbur takes a step, then another. Everything is very quiet and still. His footsteps echo. 

At once, an overwhelming, horrible panic crests like a wave. Wilbur turns around intending to find the latch to let himself out, respawning be damned, but his hands scrabble over nothing.

_Shit._

He walks around blindly, hands outstretched like a dead man, but he runs into nothing, and he walks enough that the walls begin to slope _up,_ leading towards the top of the Dome, and he’s trapped. Gunshots ping against the Dome from outside. Wilbur strains his eyes to the point where he feels like they'll pop right out of his skull and still, he sees nothing. The panic rises and smashes down, churning in sickly green in his stomach.

There’s nothing to do but wait, so wait Wilbur does. 

After eons (maybe shorter, maybe longer, time seems to have vanished), Wilbur finally hears a sound other than his own breathing.

A voice calls, “Wilbur?”

Wilbur clears his throat. 

“Tommy?” he croaks.

He thinks he might have gone blind. Something in the Dome is affecting him. Something in here feels dangerous. And very, _very_ poisonous. 

“Wilbur!” Tommy’s voice shouts, and for the first time in what feels like ages, Wilbur sees light flood into the Dome. “Wilbur, holy shit, I was looking for you for so long, I didn’t know you’d hid _in the fucking Dome,_ you’re so stupid…” 

He continues on, ignoring the fact that Wilbur feels strangely weak, needing to cling to Tommy in order to let himself out of the Dome. His knees are shaky. 

“You’re so stupid,” Tommy rants again, “They lost me as soon as I got underneath the trees, why didn’t you just follow me, no wonder you got stuck in there—”

“Tommy,” Wilbur manages, “Shut up.”

Tommy clamps his mouth shut. 

Wilbur runs his eyes over his little brother and to his relief, sees that he’s unharmed. Besides a few scrapes and bruises, that are constant from the life they live. There’s no bullet wounds, no bleeding. Good. He didn't know what he would do if his little brother ended up respawning. 

“I’m okay,” Tommy says, at Wilbur’s look, “They didn’t get me, I’m fine.”

“Good.” 

Tommy stares at him for another moment. His brow is furrowed in worry.

“Are you…” A pause. “Wilby, are you okay? You look very pale.”

Black spots swim over Wilbur’s eyes.

“I’m fine,” he says, “Let’s get moving.”

* * *

4.

The third week is when things begin to go very, very wrong.

After spending an entire week in bed, nauseated and feverish, Wilbur peels himself from the sheets and manages to take a shower. He’s sweaty and sick and aching, but Tommy’s eyes glow when he sees him up and moving again. 

“Thank Dome,” he says under his breath, “I thought you were going to respawn.”

The thought makes Wilbur more nauseous, but he pushes himself through it. 

He finds out that the kid whose horse Tommy stole— Ranboo— is very intelligent. As much as he gets pushed around, he has a spark behind his eyes. Wilbur watches with muted interest as he and Tommy get closer and closer until one day, he finds them pulling the same trick that _he_ and Tommy used to do. Tommy, looking hurt and tired and sick. Ranboo with those wide eyes, pleading for money.

Wilbur crosses his arms.

“Tommy,” he says flatly, “Are you serious?”

Tommy pushes himself up from the ground and rubs at his eyes. “What?”

“You’re— you’re _scamming_ people?” Wilbur demands. “Tommy, you’re supposed to be one of the messiahs, you can’t—”

“Can’t _what?”_ Tommy asks hotly. “We did this for years, it’s not like I’m doing something wrong, and might I remind you, that whole Dome—”

Wilbur shushes him sharply. Ranboo looks awkwardly between the two of them. Inwardly Wilbur curses this entire situation; Tommy was so close to revealing that the Church of the Dome wasn’t a deity that they're praising, that it's only a scam too. 

“Ranboo,” Wilbur says instead, as patient as possible, “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

Ranboo casts a worried glance back at Tommy, who looks sullen and guilty. Wilbur’s rage bubbles inside of him, threatens to boil over. 

As soon as they’re out of earshot of Tommy, Wilbur snaps.

“Don’t you _dare_ drag Tommy into whatever you’re doing,” he hisses. 

Ranboo’s face goes bloodless. 

“You’re not his friend,” Wilbur glares, “You’re just some random kid he found on the side of the road, right? Stop trying to force him into—”

“It was _his_ idea,” Ranboo points out, showing a rare bit of spine. “And he told me you two weren’t even brothers, so…”

Wilbur grits his teeth.

“Maybe not biologically,” he says, “But the rest of the Church thinks he is, so keep your mouth shut.”

Ranboo’s eyes widen, and he takes a small step back. 

“Um,” he says, “I didn’t mean to—”

“And Tommy’s not _your_ brother,” Wilbur snaps, “If he’s anyone’s brother, he’s mine, alright?”

Ranboo takes a stilted step backwards, and he ducks his head, abashed, “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“You should be."

He doesn’t know why he feels so protective over a kid who he isn’t even related to. But something about Ranboo makes him feel weird, and he doesn’t like how close he and Tommy have gotten. Tommy is supposed to be _his_ brother. Not Ranboo’s. 

“How about you leave?” Wilbur suggests unkindly. “Leave and go back to your abandoned cabins. I don’t want you here.”

“Uh—”

“I said _leave.”_

Ranboo looks at him with a strange expression. 

“Um,” he says, and ducks his head in awkwardness, “Your nose, it’s bleeding…”

Everything stills. 

Wilbur raises a hand to his nose and it comes away red. He looks at his hand with a mix of wonder and curiosity. 

“Sorry,” Ranboo apologizes, “Sorry, I know…” And he never finishes his sentence. 

Wilbur sniffs and his throat burns; he hasn’t had a nosebleed in what feels like years. 

Ranboo’s worried, anxious expression makes Wilbur feel strange, and the blood is dripping down his face, and Wilbur snaps, “Go away.”

“I—”

“Go _away.”_

Ranboo backs up unsteadily and vanishes into the forest. 

Tommy is silent and upset when Wilbur returns home. He doesn’t say anything, though, and Wilbur doesn’t press. Only passes damp napkins to Wilbur for him to mop up the mess. 

Finally, Wilbur breaks. 

“What?” he snaps. “You’re being all shifty.”

_“I’m_ being shifty?” Tommy demands. “You’re the one who’s acting weird lately.”

At that, Wilbur pauses. “Have I?”

Tommy looks skeptically at him. Then, an apparent non-sequitur, Tommy says, “You know the Dome isn’t real, right?”

“What?”

“It’s not real,” Tommy repeats, “We made all that religion bullshit up to get money and tools from people, remember? It’s not a god, it’s not magical, it’s just… a weird fuckin’ dome, alright?”

Wilbur looks at him. 

“Of course,” he manages. “It’s not real.”

“So stop making your life revolve around it,” Tommy says sharply, “Because it sounds like you’re starting to believe in this weird church a little too much. We’re lawless, right? We’re _scammers._ I’m a scammer. I’m not a messiah and neither are you.”

Tommy’s tone is firm. 

For the first time in what feels like weeks, Wilbur’s pulled from the fugue that he’s in. 

The Church of the Dome isn’t a real thing. It’s only a way for them to collect donations and scam people. Tommy is his brother, not Ranboo’s, and the world loads in ragged chunks, colors coming back to life.

“Oh,” Wilbur says.

“Oh,” Tommy agrees. He looks at Wilbur skeptically. “Are you feeling better now?”

Wilbur is. Only a little, though. There’s an ache deep in his bones that won’t go away.

“I am,” he says. 

He doesn't bother saying thank you. He knows Tommy will understand.

* * *

5.

Leading a cult, as it turns out, only gets more and more difficult by the day. 

It’s a lot of planning and arguments and _time,_ oh, so much time. Wilbur stands on his soapbox and makes grand sermons to the crowds, ever massing beneath the shadow of the Dome, and he and Tommy eagerly sift through the donations they receive. Tommy’s smile is mischievous as he pockets four gold coins, rubbed to a shine. They clink in his pocket as he waves people out of the church with a smile.

“Wilbur,” he boasts, “We’ll be rich enough to buy the entire world if we wanted.”

Wilbur, lost in thought, says nothing.

Tommy frowns. “Wilbur?”

The subject of the sermon for that day was about seeking revenge. Wilbur thinks about revenge a lot recently, but he’s not sure who he’s seeking revenge on. He stretches, cracks his knuckles, and turns his attention to the Dome.

Wilbur has been thinking about the Dome a lot recently too. 

His limbs feel weaker from the amount of time he spends there, and the other day he bumped against the doorway, barely a touch, and woke up to a mottled bruise. It was yellow and green and purpled around the edges. He touches it gently now and winces.

“I heard you,” Wilbur says.

Tommy eyes him. “Why are you being weird again?”

“I’m not.”

“You're thinking,” Tommy retorts, “I know you are. What are you thinking about?”

Wilbur’s thinking about the Dome. He always is. 

The other day, someone sent helicopters again, armed with more bullets and ammunition. Wilbur was forced to hide in the Dome again. That time, Wilbur could tell that there was something inside the air. It was thick, stagnant, choking, and his nose began bleeding, dripping in rivulets down his face. He was dizzy and disturbed when Tommy opened the latch. 

After that, things changed. 

“Nothing,” Wilbur lies. “The sermon went well, right?”

“It did." Tommy laughs, too forced to be genuine. "You talked about revenge a lot. Makes me worry a little."

When Wilbur stands, the world spins before him. 

"Don't worry," he says, "It's all in a day's work."

In the next week, Wilbur gifts Tommy a guitar.

It’s a pointless gift, but it’ll go along with the piano that Ty built recently. Now, in between sermons, Ty plays songs, Wilbur sings, and Tommy plays the guitar. Meanwhile, Wilbur thinks. He sits and plans and gives his increasingly dramatic sermons to the church, which is growing larger by the day.

Someone tries to clamber to the top of the Dome one day, and Wilbur and Tommy watch as they slip and fall. They hit the ground with a thud and dissolve into dust. Identical grimaces are on both of their faces.

“The Dome claims another victim,” Wilbur says.

Tommy eyes him sharply. “You don’t have to be in _sermon mode._ It’s just me here.” 

“I’m not in _sermon mode._ ”

“Yes, you are,” Tommy says, “You’re always in sermon mode recently, it pisses me off— and Ranboo won’t talk to me either, I tried to ask him why and he didn’t tell me—”

“Tommy,” Wilbur says sharply, “Shut up.”

Tommy’s irritated, but he shuts up. 

Wilbur lapses back into silent thinking. Tommy huffs and walks away.

Wilbur lets him.

One afternoon when Wilbur stands up, he gets a bout of dizziness so strong that he can’t see anything. Black spots crowd his vision, and the blood drains from his face. Nausea rises so suddenly and quickly that Wilbur worries he’ll throw up, right in the middle of his bedroom.

He wakes up hours later on the floor. 

Everything is fuzzy and still. Wilbur lies there and stares at the ceiling and wonders if he’s dying or if he’s already dead. 

He stays there for a long time. 

Tommy is the one who finds him, and his face flashes into panic, “Wilbs, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Wilbur breathes, “Out of energy.” 

“Shit,” Tommy mutters, and keeps swearing underneath his breath. “Can you— can you stand? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Wilbur mutters, pushing himself to his feet. Without warning the black spots arrive again, and the next thing he knows, the sun is rising.

Slowly, Wilbur categorizes his surroundings. He’s tucked in between the sheets of his bed, shoes off and inventory emptied. His skin is slick with sweat. Tommy putters around his room, poking in and out of drawers.

Wilbur makes an incoherent sound. Tommy’s face flashes through a series of emotions— relief, fear, upset— before falling completely neutral.

“Stay in bed,” he says.

“But—”

“I’m going to give the sermon today,” Tommy cuts him off. “You stay here and… sleep. Get some sleep.” 

Wilbur thinks about arguing, but he only nods blearily. 

Through his hazy vision, he sees Tommy gather his things and go. Sunlight falls on Wilbur in pale strips. It burns his already tender skin. 

“Tommy,” he murmurs, seconds or minutes or hours later, “Sing me a song.”

The world blurs. Tommy sits at his side, one hand clasped in the other. He must be done with the sermon, then. His touch is soft but it scalds Wilbur. He isn’t sure why.

“A song?” 

“A good one,” Wilbur breathes.

Tommy fumbles for the guitar Wilbur gifted him a few weeks ago. It’s closer to scrap wood than anything else, but with steady hands Tommy tunes the strings and plays an experimental chord. It’s sweeter than honey and Wilbur closes his eyes, allowing himself to sink into the music. Tommy begins singing, and his voice is rough, missing more of the notes than he hits, and yet it’s the sweetest thing Wilbur has heard in ages. He tilts his head towards the sound.

Tommy stops. His voice is thick, and he clears his throat before continuing again.

Wilbur faintly recognizes the song that he’s singing. He knows it because it was the same one he sang, when they were years younger, when Wilbur was nursing an abandoned and hurt Tommy back to health. Back before Wilbur had lost that first guitar (turned into scrap— Wilbur has no idea where it is now), back before the Church of the Dome had come into the world, before he and Tommy had become the messiahs of a cult they never planned on becoming so large, before they had become brothers.

They’re brothers, Wilbur thinks blearily, they are, Tommy is his, he’s his ward. His apprentice. His person to guide. 

Eventually Tommy’s voice peters out. 

“That was nice,” Wilbur mutters. 

He can feel himself hovering on the edge of a knife, life and death folded over themselves like sheets of metal, forming a thin blade that divides the living and the dead. One hand in the grey area of respawn, the other in the vibrant colors of life. 

Wilbur can feel himself fading. 

“Wilbur,” Tommy says, alarmed, “Are you—”

“Shh,” Wilbur says. “Just play the guitar.”

* * *

+1.

_Radiation poisoning,_ Wilbur thinks blearily, and stares at where his skin has turned so translucent he can see his own veins through it. _So that’s what the Dome is hiding inside._

He doesn’t tell Tommy, though Tommy sits at his side the entire night. Wilbur’s throat feels scrubbed raw and his hands are tender, soft, bruised easily. He tosses and turns in pain until, with a shock, he’s hurled into respawn.

The thing with respawning is that there’s no set limit on death, but Wilbur is always terrified that one day, he’ll be the first to run into the wall. Someone will shoot him, stab him, poison him, and they’ll all realize, _Wilbur won’t wake up this time._

Wilbur floats for a moment. That half-life, floating between death and respawn, is gentle and soothing. Experimentally he hoists himself to his feet and looks around. The only thing he can see is his hands; the rest of the world fades into a fine blue mist. 

Wilbur drifts in that in-between space, where nothing is real and nothing is fake, until he grasps at the strands of light, dangling like ropes between _life_ and _death,_ and fiercely pulls himself towards white light. 

He wakes up to see Tommy asleep at his side. 

Wilbur’s mouth is dry and tastes like sawdust. His eyes creak open. His hand shifts, and Tommy startles awake.

“Hi,” Wilbur croaks. 

“Holy fucking shit!” Tommy explodes. “You scared me, you were dead for so long, I thought you weren’t going to come back—” 

“I’m fine,” Wilbur mumbles, and clears his throat. He can still taste bile. “I think that was just a rough respawn.”

“I can tell,” Tommy retorts, all false bravado, “You look like shit.” 

Wilbur laughs. “You don’t look too good yourself.” 

Tommy's laugh is uncertain, but Wilbur can tell that his nonchalance is putting Tommy at ease. Wilbur pushes himself up, swings his legs out. The dizziness and the nausea is gone. The aching and tenderness has vanished. All there is is the rejuvenation of a new body, excited to move. 

“Are you ready for the sermon today?” Tommy asks. 

Wilbur thinks about the burns on his hands, the nausea that rose in his stomach, strands of hair falling out one by one. He thinks about the Dome, which had poisoned him from the inside out, and the twisted path he’s taken everyone down.

He smiles and forces those thoughts away. “As long as I’ve got you with me, right?”

Tommy’s face breaks into a relieved smile.

“Wilbur,” he says, “If I didn’t just watch you die and come back to life, I’d punch you so damn hard for being that cheesy.”

“Thanks,” Wilbur says pleasantly. “Means a lot coming from the dumbest little brother around.”

Tommy’s mouth falls open. “Hey!”

Wilbur stifles a smile. He digs through his drawers and surfaces with the robes he’s started wearing for sermons. 

“You know,” Tommy says after a moment, “You’re such a shit older brother.”

Wilbur blinks.

“Really?”

A loose smile. “Nah. But one of these days we _are_ leaving this goddamn dome behind, alright? And we’ll go somewhere real cool. By the beach or something. We’ll be filthy rich and we’ll live until we’re eighty-five and never have to respawn once.”

Wilbur pulls the robes on. Already, he feels older, more mature, more alive.

“That’s the dream, Toms.”

Already there are people gathering below. Wilbur can hear them, talking and chattering. He has no idea what he’ll give this sermon on, but that’s okay. He’ll manage. He always does. 

“You ready?” 

Tommy’s grin, absent and missed in the weeks where Wilbur was dying, has reemerged. It makes Wilbur feel light in a way that nothing else can.

“Ready,” he confirms, and the two brothers leave the room together. 

**Author's Note:**

> i do not trust that dome at all.
> 
> if you enjoyed, please leave kudos/comments/subscribe on ao3! it really means a lot <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [dog-eared pages](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29370060) by [minty (mintyyfresh)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintyyfresh/pseuds/minty)




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